It's The Thought That Counts
by FinalArc
Summary: It's Dick's birthday, and Bruce wants to find the perfect gift. But he and his adopted son have very different perspectives on gift-giving.
1. Chapter 1

Birthdays were a stressful time for Bruce. Not so much his own, although he was always forced to endure one too many surprise celebrations he didn't want from people whose company he didn't truly enjoy, but that was the price of maintaining his mask of the affable fop. No, it was the birthdays of others that filled him with dread, even if Bruce Wayne had enough resources to procure any and all desired gifts. Showing genuine emotion, not his fake, exuberant personality, was difficult for Bruce, and he found it easier to express his feelings through large and extravagant offerings. The problem was, the people he cared enough about to give it such gifts to were impossible to buy for.

In the case of his former-ward-turned-eldest-son, Dick Grayson, Bruce had all but abandoned hope. Dick wasn't overly materialistic, but he liked the nice things in life, enjoyed a little luxury, so there was really no reason for Bruce to consistently fail to find an appropriate gift for the other man. His son expressed wants for many things, all of which Bruce could afford, and yet the billionaire fell short in his gift-wrapped displays of affection. It's baffled him, and left Bruce with a sense of failure that he always resolved to rectify with the next occasion, only to miss the mark again.

While his son never verbally expressed his disappointment, Bruce knew for a fact it was there. He also knew he hadn't completely offended his son with his gifts, thankfully, because Dick had always been _extremely_ vocal about all the times the older man _had_ caused offense, but this knowledge provided little relief in the face of his son's quiet disappointment.

The sixteenth birthday of his young ward was a event that still haunted Bruce. It was a troubling year, full of growing pains in both the civilian and costumed aspects of their lives. At times, Bruce felt like the young boy in his house was an afterthought, a ghostly presence that rarely manifested itself and was a distant stranger when viewed up close. And at other times, the two clashed with such visceral fervor that's Bruce felt physically ill at the end of the day, either with frustration or love or some unholy combination of both. If this was normal for the fathers of teenage sons, Bruce didn't know. What he did know was that Dick's cheerful moods were becoming less frequently seen and Bruce had signed a lot of papers promising the state that he would ensure the child's safety, health and happiness.

At sixteen years old, most teenagers turned their thoughts towards cars. The parents with enough wealth to do so bought new sports cars in grand displays, those of more moderate means pursued used cars or allowed their beloved offspring to borrow the family vehicle. It was a right of passage, an opportunity for paternal bonding if so desired, so as they entered the month of March, Bruce promised to buy Dick a car.

Dick, with a somewhat listless shrug that was far too common of late, told Bruce he didn't have to do that. When pressed, Dick explained that he already drove a motorcycle as Robin, and Dick Grayson the regular teen had little free time and was often chauffeured places. It was a senseless expense.

And that struck something in Bruce, a deep and not entirely unfounded fear that the boy viewed _himself_ as a senseless expense. So he pressed the issue. "You can't tell me you don't like driving fast cars," he teased, earning a bit of that beloved smile back. "And all the other students in your class are getting cars for their birthdays."

"And if all the other students jumped off a bridge, would you do that, too?" Dick needled, but the boy's grin soon faded. "I don't need a new car, though. If I hadn't come to live with you, I probably wouldn't even bother with a driver's license." An interesting thought. Where would Dick have kept a second vehicle, if his family even had a first one? When would he find the time to drive it, and where would he go? Did he or his parents even make enough money with the circus to make such a purchase feasible?

It was always uncomfortable to be reminded of the financial gap between the Waynes and the Graysons. Not because Bruce felt Dick's status was somehow lower or his previous situation worthy of pity, but because so much of the world _did_. As if Bruce's money could ever make up for all John and Mary Grayson gave their son, gifts Dick would never receive again. A car by itself didn't mean much, but if it told Dick and those around him that he was worth an expensive gift, that Bruce thought his ward equal to all the other young men and women receiving cars from their parents, that they didn't need a blood tie for Bruce to want to share this milestone with the boy in his care, then it was money well spent. If it could communicate any of the feelings in his heart, well, that's what money was for, in Bruce's opinion.

His mother believed so. "It's just metal and paper. Cheap, useless things," she said of the change in her son's fist as the boy debated between one candy shop and another. "But we say the paper is worth something, and now it has value. When you spend it, you're telling the world what you bought has worth, more value than all the other things you could have bought." That's why she and father gave money to charities, she went on to explain. It wasn't the only way to help others, or even the most important way, but it told the world that Martha and Thomas thought the cause valuable. "And maybe other people will see that and think it's valuable too."

Dick wasn't a charity, in any sense, but Bruce remembered standing on his tiptoes to slide his small amount of coin across the counter when he finally decided which candy shop he wanted to spend his allowance on. He was too shy to tell the lady on the other side how much he loved her fudge, or how her small candy shop was so much more fun and friendly than the franchise store at the other end of the mall, but by spending his few precious dollars there, Bruce had a way of communicating that to her without words. And while he couldn't put a price on love, he could metaphorically show Dick that this shrewd and aloof businessman he lived with, always fighting for the best deal, thought the boy's value worth any and all expense.

"I'm not trying to out-do your parents, or imply you're better off now," Bruce said with a great deal of care, since Dick had brought the subject up. He remembered how adamantly the boy had resisted his new benefactor in the beginning, refusing the idea of the rich stranger swooping in and writing over his old life. A compromise had been struck, and Dick's circus roots and memory of his parents existed alongside the new family built with Bruce and Alfred. "Maybe you don't need it, but you're a good kid, and it's your sixteenth birthday. If you've got your eyes on a dream car, I'd love to buy it for you."

He was rewarded with a small smile, but again, Dick said Bruce didn't need to buy him a car. Never that he didn't _want_ a car, but always that it was too expensive, not practical, Bruce didn't need to bother. They went back and forth for some time before Dick finally sighed and said in a soft voice, "Look, if you're that set on getting me a car, just give me one of the five hundred we are already have." There were hardly so many in the garage, but Dick was correct in saying there was an excess of vehicles in their house. "Hand me down one of those."

The request surprised Bruce, and he argued that Dick was entitled to something new and fully his own, but Dick ended the conversation by saying, "That's what I want, Bruce. Just put a bow on one of your old cars. Or don't get me one at all." When asked if there was any one in particular he preferred, Dick simply said, "Surprise me."

Bruce had a week or two to contemplate that before the day arrived, but every time he cast his eyes over his extensive collection, his stomach curdled. All the students at Dick's school were receiving brand-new cars and would judge each other based on that superficial possession. It was petty, Bruce knew, and he shouldn't have bought into it. But his ward had endured far too much ostracization, insults and judgment. For bearing that very title of 'ward', for his less-than-opulent roots, for his old profession, his mixed blood and even his comparatively modest or humble behavior. Everyone would be comparing their cars to that of their peers, and would surely look down on the boy with on outdated, re-gifted used car, even if it was still a luxury model. Not a 'real' son, and therefore, not worth a gift with actual cost and effort attached; Bruce could hear the taunts now.

The word 'ward' would cease to have meaning the second Dick turned eighteen, but he was still a son in Bruce's eyes. He wasn't entirely sure if that was how Dick viewed their relationship, but Bruce wanted the guardianship to last their whole lives. Dick should inherit the Wayne fortune, he should attend any university he pleased with no care for expense, he should feel comfortable begging his parental figure for all the things his heart desired, even if it said parent didn't spoil the child with constant acquiescence. But people attached to value to possessions, to checkbooks and little green pieces of paper, and wrong as it might be, transferred that value to a person. And if that was the world they lived in, then Dick deserved it to drive around in the biggest, flashiest display of grotesque spending to ever set wheels to road.

After weeks of searching, Bruce finally found the perfect car, the right combination of make, model, color and features to reflect to Dick's tastes. Brand new, one of a kind, fresh out of the factory and all Dicks own. When the fated birthday came, Bruce waited eagerly for the moment of unveiling, hoping to finally see that look of pure excitement and unbridled joy. The more he thought of the significance of a sixteenth birthday, the more Bruce became emotionally invested, and he began to hope that offering such a memorable gift would cement something between them, forge something unbreakable that would last through these tumultuous teenaged years, the physical distance of the Titans and the JLA, and the loss of a legal tie when Dick came of age. While it sometimes seemed like Bruce and Dick were starting to drift apart, now the man entertained fantasies of road trips and drives through Gotham's picturesque surroundings, teaching his charge the rules of the road and sharing stories, going through drive-thrus for comfort food after long days...

All of those thoughts evaporated when Dick saw the car. Bruce had been watching the boy's face with his anticipation only barely hidden, and so had a perfect view of Dick's crushing disappointment.

It only lasted a second, and then the birthday boy was overflowing with expressions of gratitude and insisting on taking it out for a spin with Bruce and Alfred. But the first expression was burned into Bruce's mind, the face of a beloved child let down, and as happy as Dick expressed himself to be, the wall between guardian and ward remained in place, and the boy's enigmatic moods were more impenetrable than ever.

Every year after that, Christmas, birthdays, graduations, Bruce tried to rectify the mistake made. He tried giving Dick things he expressed desire over, things recommended by the boy's friends, thoughtful gifts, practical gifts, but always there was something missing from the recipient's reaction, effusive as it was. But Bruce kept trying to find that perfect gift, the one that spoke all the things he was trying to prove to Dick since the day he took him in. He kept hoping, even if the result always fell a little short.

But this year held more significance than any before it. Bruce missed Dick's last birthday, lost on a trip through time courtesy of Darkseid. It would be the first birthday since returning from the "grave" and if there was ever a time to find the perfect gift, a tangible, crystallized symbol of the feelings Bruce longed to convey, this was the day. This was no time to rely on Bruce's terrible intuition. So he took the direct route, and asked Dick point blank what he wanted for his birthday.

This was no help at all. "Oh, I don't care, anything's fine." Bruce would have rolled his eyes, but he was wearing the cowl at the time, and that would have negated the effect. And given that Dick was dressed more or less identically, Bruce refused to be the juvenile Batman in the room.

"Then ask for anything. Just say it, and it's yours."

"But I already have everything I want." The sincerity warmed Bruce's heart, even if he didn't think it was true. But Dick gestured around the Batcave with a broad grin, "Really, Bruce, I live in a penthouse with a butler, great family, great friends, my adopted father isn't dead and I'm Batman. At this point, asking for anything else would be greedy."

"It's not greedy if I want to give it to you," Bruce argued back, pushing away his casework in frustration. After everything that the past years brought them, he wanted to do something meaningful, something to make up for all the pain. "You know it's useless to let me guess."

"Aren't you supposed to be a detective?" Dick teased, receiving a grunt in return. "Don't take it so seriously. It's not like you're obligated to get me anything." And the younger man turned back to examining trace evidence under a microscope while Bruce resisted the urge to fidget.

"That's why I want to." The look on Dick's face shone through the cowl.

"Well, that's a gift in itself," he said with a shy grin that looked out of place on Batman. "You've always given me amazing presents. Whatever you decide will be fine." But Bruce didn't want it to be 'fine'. "Where is this coming from?"

There was a lump in Bruce's throat, preventing him from answering immediately. He looked down at the case file he was supposed to be working on but only saw Darkseid and bats, gravestones and birthdays spent with only Alfred. He'd put Dick and Tim through that, when he'd taken them in specifically so they wouldn't be alone, had Damian living with him in order to know his son and offer a better influence. But when he thought about his life, all the times he'd been absent, all the times he'd pushed his children away or been purposefully distant, he wondered if there was even a point to being there now? If he were to ask, would he learn that a year of their father's absence was not actually so different from all the years he was supposedly by their side?

"The car," Bruce mumbled out while Dick was occupied with the microscope. "I got you a car when you were sixteen, and you hated it."

Dick looked up from his evidence in surprise, and actually took off his cowl to reveal shocked blue eyes. "What are you talking about, Bruce? I _loved_ that car! When Poison Ivy attacked downtown and collapsed a parking garage on it, I was _devastated!_ " And yet, Bruce couldn't get that one look out of his mind, the sight of his child disappointed and hurt, longing for something...

Bruce had done enough of that to his kids with his 'death'. "It wasn't what you wanted," Bruce grunted. This year, his gift couldn't be just a nice purchase, it had to _mean_ something. "You should have something that matters. Especially after..." After that separation. All the lives Bruce lived with none of his sons. The family believing their father dead, with only that inadequate holographic recording to comfort them. After all the ups and downs in Bruce's relationship with Dick, he wanted to give something that lasted, a testament that he cared for his son and would give anything to make him happy. "What do you really want? There's no limit, ask for anything."

"You have got to be the most generous person I know," Dick said with a small laugh. "But really, if you even just give me a phone call, I'm thrilled. Everything else is icing on the cake." If that was a birthday pun, Bruce decided to ignore it.

"Come on, just say it. Multiple things, if you can't decide." Dick gave a low whistle, but fell into quiet contemplation, and Bruce grew eager with anticipation.

"All right," Dick said once he'd decided, but his tone was so hesitant and his face so solemn that Bruce grew afraid that the younger man would settle on one of the few things Bruce _couldn't_ give, asking to bring back his dead parents from the grave or something similar.

But Dick's true desire was much more modest. "One hour with you," he said, deliberate, but also quiet and soft. "No work, no interruptions, no Batman. I don't care what we do, but that that's what I want. One hour where it's just the two of us."

"That's all?" Bruce could have given anything short of a small country if he'd desired it, and Dick asked for this? "But that's _nothing!_ "

"It's all I wanted last year," came the strained reply, which Dick soon shook off. "Look, I know you're busy, and Batman's on call 24/7, so I won't be crushed if it doesn't happen. But if you can swing it, that would be an awesome present." It threw Bruce to hear that. Touched him, certainly, but should he have been worried that his son wanted so little from his father?

But he couldn't ignore the request. That had been his mistake with the car. If Dick said he wanted an hour of time, then Bruce needed to honor that wish. But surely there was more to the story? They spent time together often, after all. Maybe not a scheduled, one-on-one hour, but this was an everyday sort of occurrence, not a special event worthy of a birthday. He doubted Dick would be truly content with just an hour, and hoped that it wasn't a self-deprecating message: "I'm not worth the effort, not worth the money, not worth the recognition".

"That will be a little difficult to gift wrap," Bruce finally said, only to have Dick laugh and clap him on the back.

"Well, it doesn't matter. I'll love anything you decide. I always do." Bruce smiled, but his heart fell, for he knew it wasn't true. Dick's first car wasn't the only disappointment in the line of Christmases and birthdays Bruce had failed in, and this year had more emotional baggage attached than any before it.

An hour of something Dick already had didn't make up for the years of grief caused. Bruce resolved, come Hell or high water, he would find the _perfect_ gift for his son's birthday...


	2. Chapter 2

The original plan was a vacation. Dick asked for an hour, Bruce would give him a week. A father/son trip at a cabin in Colorado, plenty of time for hiking, white-water rafting, roasting things over a campfire, whatever struck their fancy. Something special, something memorable, and there would be no chance of work or Gotham pulling Bruce away. Nothing short of Superboy-Prime attacking the planet would distract them once they arrived at the cabin.

That was the plan, but the universe decided to counter Bruce's intentions by preventing them from ever getting there in the first place. His schedule filled up, problems reared their ugly heads, and before Bruce knew it, that future week turned into a weekend, which turned into a day, and soon, even finding one uninterrupted hour for Dick seemed questionable. It was time to search for a Plan B.

Except that left him back at square one, and worse, with Dick having expectations Bruce was sure to let down. "Alfred, what do I do?" Bruce begged into a cell phone as he moved between terminals at the airport. The birthday was precariously close, and Bruce was constantly rushing from state to state, country to country, in both his costume and power tie. It had already taken an extreme feat of rescheduling just so Bruce could get from Tinasha to Gotham for even part of March 20, and that was only possible if he moved the Wayne Enterprises quarterly review to the same day, something he absolutely couldn't delegate his presence away from. After that came work for an ongoing case with the JLA, which it pained him to say, _did_ take priority, and then he needed to be back in Africa for Batman Inc. business by 9:00 AM the next day. He'd already inconvenienced his board members, airline companies and begged favors from superpowered friends just so he could be in Gotham to wish his son a happy birthday in person, but the walls were still closing in. His exasperated secretary had all but torn out her hair when Bruce asked if things could be rearranged yet again. "I'm sorry, Mr. Wayne, but I can't work miracles!"

Apparently, Bruce had used up his fair share of those. "All he asked for was an hour, and I can barely find a fifteen-minute break in the next two months!"

"I'm sure Master Dick appreciates the lengths you're going to, sir. It's the thought that counts, and you really have done all but move heaven and earth to be there."

And if Bruce had Clark's powers, he'd have moved those, too. "Thought isn't good enough! My whole life has been good thoughts and best intentions that always fall short, and he asked for an _hour_ , Alfred! Asked like he expected to get even _less_ than that! You know what kind of year he's had, what he went through before that, and I wasn't there! I'm never there, I always say the wrong thing and give the wrong presents, and–"

"If I may interrupt your tirade, sir," Alfred said with no small amount amount of concern, "Are you well? Or is there another issue I haven't been made privy to?"

"I'm fine!" Bruce snapped, hating that he let his mask slip, even in front of Alfred. "I'm fine, I just need advice." He needed to calm down, that was what he needed. Except the world was spinning so fast and the centrifugal force was yanking him away from the person who caught Bruce when he fell.

"Well then," Alfred didn't sound convinced. "There are two things you must remember. One: Master Dick is a grown man, not a child who cannot yet perceive the world beyond his own needs. He understands that his father has responsibilities that take him away sometimes, and won't resent your slight absence if there is a concentrated effort to connect to him at other times." But that was the problem, all the years Bruce hadn't made such a concentrated effort, to the point that a measly little hour of time was a treasure to be coveted. "And two: his request isn't a sign of your failure, but the opposite. Ask your colleagues how many of their adult sons want to spend time with their fathers."

It made Bruce feel a little better, but it didn't help him figure out what to do, and he had no further ideas when Dick's birthday arrived. "Happy birthday," he wished over the phone, first thing in the morning. In an airport again, just a few minutes from boarding, but it was a window of time to talk. "Sorry, if I woke you up."

There was no 'if' about it, Dick had obviously been asleep. But his slurred voice was happy when he expressed his thanks, and he started to wake up as they chatted. "What time does your flight get in?"

"12:15. If traffic's good, I should get to work just in time for the quarterly review."

"Wow, boss, when do you sleep?" Another thing rapidly being shoved out of Bruce's schedule. "Try to catch a nap in there sometime, okay?"

"I'll do my best." Napping on the plane would have to suffice. He rolled into Gotham a disheveled mess, but hid his weariness and made himself presentable. If only his insides could be as controlled and collected as the outside appearance.

Both Tim and Dick were present for the meeting, despite Dick's constant complaints to Lucius that he 'wasn't a numbers guy'. While technically true, Dick was bright and conscientious, and held his own in the meeting. Tim clearly had better aptitude for business and could interpret the endless powerpoint presentations with a glance, but there was a reason Dick had lead so many diverse teams of superheroes. He understood the cogs that made machines work, saw patterns, managed people, and knew when the numbers didn't add up, even if he needed an assistant to show him how to transfer that information into a spreadsheet. Between Dick and the almost genius level of business savvy Tim brought to the table, Bruce's company had been in good hands.

He was almost sorry to take the reins back. "I'm very proud of both of you," he told the boys after the meeting, and watched their faces light up. It was so easy to praise them, why didn't he do it more often? "I have about fifteen minutes before I need to be at the Watchtower. Join me for a late lunch in my office Tim? Dick doesn't have a choice, I have some papers for him to sign."

"Love to, Boss-Dad, but that review ran over and now I've got to rush to a meeting with Byron Technical. They already underestimate me for my age, so I can't afford to be late." And Tim dashed off, with a promise to be back at the manor in time for Dick's birthday party, leaving Bruce and his son to themselves.

It wasn't an hour, but it was better than nothing. Only marginally, since there wasn't enough time to order out and that limited their food choices to birthday cake from the break room and a bag of chips stolen from Tim's office. "What was that you needed signed?" Dick asked once they were settled.

Bruce dug the aforementioned documents from his desk and slid them over to the younger man. "We talked a bit about this last week, but I've been updating my will and making provisions in case we need to do... _this_ , again." He gestured around the office and Dick scowled once the meaning hit.

"You really know how to kill the taste of birthday cake. And we are never doing this again."

"Theoretically, it's possible," Bruce pressed on, "And now that we've had a sort of trial run–"

"Are you for real?"

"–I can see some ways to make it easier." Dick's face read nothing but exasperation and disbelief, so Bruce moved to his question. "I know you've been doing it so long already, but I'd like to formally ask you to become Damian's legal guardian, if anything like this were to happen to again."

Now his son relaxed his expression, and took the offered pen. "Of course." And with a few quick scratches, that was settled. Bruce honestly didn't know how the boys managed while keeping up the ruse that their father was alive and vacationing in some unreachable location. They had some access to Bruce's funds, as did Alfred, but they lacked the codes, passwords and authority to truly take over and manage the house and company. Dick had little legal rights to make decisions over Damian's health and welfare while Bruce supposedly lived, and Bruce wasn't entirely sure he _wanted_ to know how Tim convinced the board to let him take over the boss' job. He'd left provisions, but he hadn't wanted Dick to take over as Batman, certainly didn't expect Damian to become Robin, or for Tim to start running the company. Since the world believed Bruce alive, there was nothing for the boys to inherit, and yet they were orphaned and alone again.

It was unlikely he'd live forever, but Bruce had the chance now to ease some of the physical hardships from his eventual demise. The emotional hardships however, he couldn't do anything about, nor was he doing particularly well handling his own... "Thank you. I'll probably have more things for you to sign as I discuss with my lawyers."

"Well, let me know..." Even though Dick's face reflected unease, it's gave Bruce an idea.

"Since we're on the subject of my will, is there anything in particular you'd like left to you?" Dick nearly choked on his cake. "No sense letting you all fight over it later."

"Bruce, if you ever died – and I'd like it if you didn't – no one's going to be worried about who gets which stuff. Except the cowl, maybe, Jason went a little nuts over that."

"Still, if something has sentimental value, it should go to the person who appreciates it. So, think," Bruce probed, "Is there anything you want? Cars, art, antiques?"

Dick stared for a second before clutching his stomach and howling. "No way! You're trying to suss out a birthday gift, aren't you?"

"I'm not–" but Dicks laughter cut off Bruce's words and he gave up. "Fine. Now stop laughing."

"Bruce, I already told you what I want," Dick began, but when he saw the look of shame on his mentor's face, he winced. "Oh. I asked for too much, didn't I?"

"No, you didn't, it's just–"

"It's a busy time, I get it," Dick waved the concern away. "You're the CEO, and then there's your crazy nightlife. But you still managed to eat cake with me on my birthday, so thanks, Bruce. You're the best." The smile was so genuine, the words so sincere, but the eyes weren't quite as committed, and Bruce hated himself.

He had a chance that few had. A chance to look at his life from the grave, even if he hadn't been truly dead, and go back to relive it. But that wasn't the boon it was thought to be, just torture. Someday, Bruce would die, and he couldn't do anything to stop it. He couldn't change the past or rewrite the painful memories. And now it seemed he couldn't even change his present, become the man he should have been before his time-traveling adventure. Time kept hurtling toward that fateful end and all Bruce could do was stand by and watch the same dreadful choices be made again and again... "It's not that I didn't want to. I really tried..."

"I know. And I appreciate that." But it wasn't good enough, not for Bruce. And he knew Dick was only so forgiving because of the 'resurrection' miracle. His sensitive, devoted boy wouldn't risk a full-scale fight so close to having lost Bruce forever, whether or not his father actually deserved that forgiveness. "What's with that look on your face? No one should look like that with cake in front of them."

"I'm sorry I couldn't spend more time with you on your birthday." He wouldn't even be able to make an appearance at dinner, he'd miss the party, and that might not have been such a big deal except all Dick wanted was a simple _hour with his father._

"It's fine, you bent over backwards to be here," Dick countered, stuffing his mouth full of the last of his cake. And yet, Bruce saw that same look he'd seen when the boy was sixteen. Disappointment, longing, resignation. Year after year after year... "That means a lot. But I'm in my mid-twenties, not seven. I'm not going run off and think you hate me just because you didn't watch me blow out my candles one time."

"It's not just one time," Bruce mumbled, and his gut twisted itself into a knot. "And isn't that exactly what happened to us?" Dick expressed confusion, and Bruce forced himself on, "It wasn't that long after your sixteenth birthday, when I didn't get the right car, that we started really fighting. Soon you were out of the house for good, and you said... you thought I didn't..."

Dick set his paper plate down with an incredulous look, but it carried a hard tension that cowed Bruce, since it usually heralded an argument. "Okay, what is your obsession with that car? I loved my car, it was amazing, and it had nothing to do with any of our fights. And if I thought you stopped caring about me back then, it's usually because _that's what you told me._ "

Bruce snapped his head up. "I never told you-"

"Give me a break! _'You're fired, get out of my cave'_? _'I wish I never had a partner, go leave your key with Alfred'_? What was I supposed to think?" There it was. The anger, Bruce should have known the good relationship he currently enjoyed with Dick wouldn't last forever. "It's not always me being brash and sensitive or some ego thing where I can't stand your shadow. Sometimes it's you, too! And I've been trying to cut you slack, but-"

"I know..." He couldn't deny that, and didn't dare try, anymore. Not after everything that happened. On a man's deathbed, the saying went, no one ever wished they'd spent more time at the office. It was family they regretted passing up, and while Bruce hadn't truly died, he had a dead man's perspective, and a huge pile of regrets. "You shouldn't be something I have to squeeze into my schedule, and you shouldn't have to waste a birthday gift to spend a little time with your..." He stopped himself before saying 'father'. Even though that's exactly how Bruce saw himself, it was hard to make that claim in front of Dick. Not when he had competition for that role, and was losing to a set of parents that weren't even alive anymore.

Dick furrowed his brows and gave Bruce a strange look. "Don't take this the wrong way, but... is everything okay with you?" Bruce refused to flinch. "You haven't been yourself since you got back from... you know, and you keep obsessing over this present issue..." When he didn't get a response, Dick sighed and dropped his shoulders. "What did Darkseid do to you, Bruce? You've barely talked about it."

Bells, bats, loneliness. Failure and emptiness, a lack of control, lack of meaning. Everything he loved, gone, twisted or forgotten entirely, and he was alone. Only after being rescued from that Hell did he realize the friends he had, yet right on that epiphany's heels came the harsh truth: his little tin soldiers were battered and neglected by the man they fought for so loyally. Flocks of bats in caves, but blind and still alone, wrapped in darkness and feared by all. Bells for lost time, funeral bells, new days wasted, ends of days squandered, bells to summon servants and bells for celebrations Bruce should have been part of.

He lost himself, and everything that gave Bruce Wayne's life meaning. And even though he had it back, he still felt lost.

But Bruce couldn't exactly launch himself at his son and scream _"I missed you, don't leave me ever again!"_ so he stayed silent, and Dick eventually took pity on him. "I don't know what's going on with you. But a couple years ago, we couldn't have handled being in the same room for even this long. I call this progress." If that was supposed to make Bruce feel better, it didn't. "You don't need to stress out over a birthday gift, it's not going to break us. And even if you just got me a pencil, I'd love it, because I'd know you spent hours comparing all the different pencil brands and thinking about which one I'd like best and what properties would be most useful to me, colors, feel and you'd probably even compare the smell of the wood. If it's someone you care about, you put so much thought into your gifts no matter what they are, and it's always amazing to realize that you think so much about me."

Dick shouldn't have been amazed. That should have been normal, expected. "But it wasn't what you wanted." A pencil, that fateful car, or this short, hurried conversation tucked into a preoccupied day.

"There's no such thing as a perfect gift, Bruce. If you managed it, then what would be the point of anyone else even trying? Theoretically, I'd be disappointed with all but one." There may have been a point to that, but still. "It's not about what I want, it's about what you want me to have."

Bruce wasn't sure he understood, but at that moment, an alarm went off on his cell phone. He gave a quick glance and frowned. "I have to go."

If Dick was upset by this, he didn't show it. "The Watchtower awaits. Try not to brood too much over this. Not your fault everyone wants a piece of you." No, but wasn't he the one who decided which of those pieces got top priority?

The two were about to part ways, when Dick suddenly turned and stopped his adoptive father. "If you had to choose, what would you want to leave me in your will?"

"What?"

"Just humor me," Dick said, making an impatient gesture with his hand to remind Bruce of the time constraints. "Say you had to go right now. What is the one thing you'd want me to have, besides your first-born son?"

Put on the spot, Bruce wasn't sure how to answer, or if he even wanted to. But when Dick insisted, an idea began to form. "Probably," he said with his mouth dry, "The house you grew up in. That's where all our memories are. It would mean the most to you." There were a few other things he could think of, but Wayne Manor stood out the most.

The answer pleased Dick. "See? You've still got those awesome-present instincts. Don't over-think this, Bruce." And with that, they finally split.

But it was difficult to take that advice to heart, and the conversation haunted Bruce all the way to the Watchtower...


	3. Chapter 3

Working with the JLA was a mixed experience. Sometimes a blessing, sometimes a necessary evil, but always eventful, and the current investigation was no exception. The case started out well within Batman's element, chasing down leads and interrogating suspects to locate the head of a secret organization that managed to operate _just_ within the protections of the law. A typical job for Bruce, but now on a global scale.

Where it took a giant leap sideways was when they closed in on the leader. The suspect turned out to have more backup and resources than the League had bargained for, and his secret base was located in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean, guarded by mutated killer whales. While exasperating, it wasn't so dangerous for a team of superheroes to break through, capture the leader and deliver the necessary evidence to the local government authorities, but it was time-consuming. Bruce was forced to cancel his flight to Africa and instructed Lucius Fox to go on ahead and meet Zavimbe without him, assuring the man that he would follow in the company jet as soon as possible and touch down in plenty of time for the Batman Incorporated meeting.

Another all-nighter. Well, the world didn't save itself.

Luckily, the criminal base was much closer to his destination than Gotham, and Wonder Woman offered to drop him off in her invisible jet on her way back to the United States. That, at least, was one thing going right, and Bruce would arrive in Tinasha with two hours to spare before his meeting with Batman Incorporated. Time for some much-needed sleep, assuming his troubled mind would let him rest. Even in the relative quiet of Diana's jet, Bruce couldn't relax.

The day was officially over. Dick and Damian were probably even finished with patrol, with the younger tucked in bed while Batman logged evidence and updated a few case files before turning in himself. The whole day had passed, and Bruce had barely acknowledged it.

That wasn't entirely fair, and he tried to reassure himself that he _had_ called his son, and had been the first to offer congratulations. He'd all but killed himself to get into town for the day, where he did get to spend a few hours with Dick, if in the context of work. He'd missed the party, yes, but that was just a casual family gathering over cake before everyone hit the streets, and as Dick himself had said, they were both adults. They were long past the age where birthday parties were a grand affair that required the world to stop.

But still... Unable to sleep, Bruce turned to Diana. "How much longer until we arrive?"

"About five minutes less than the last time you asked," came the curt reply, but delivered with a paradoxically sweet tone. Diana was strange like that. A fierce warrior serving as an ambassador of peace. She threw cars and had no compunction delivering death to criminals she felt deserved the sentence, but she was on a first name basis with her entire rogues gallery and spoke to them with such kindness and respect, even while strangling them with her lasso. A woman feared, distrusted and even hated by many, including half of the Justice League, even though she was strangely incapable of not loving every single living thing. She smiled and laughed in the midst of the world's ugliness and sometimes held a black mood when those around her saw peace, and Bruce wasn't sure she experienced humanity in the same way the rest of them did.

There were few people Bruce respected more, and few who could maintain that respect while simultaneously engaging his temper. "Is something going on at home, Bruce?" As always, Bruce's Bat-glare had no effect on her. "And don't say you're fine, we all know you're not."

"It's none of your business."

"If it affects your work with the team, it becomes League business," said Wonder Woman. "And I'm the closest thing we have to an HR department, so let me in on the issue, or Clark and I will force you to take a leave of absence." Bruce growled to himself and turned his head away, prompting frustration in the woman next to him. "I'm serious, we'll get Dick back up here! Half the current league are his recruits anyway. I don't see why you can't take a break to deal with whatever's got you stretched to all corners." The mention of Dick caused Bruce to groan.

As much as he didn't want to discuss the issue, he sensed Diana wasn't going to let go. "It's a family problem." Meaning, none of her business, but his companion didn't take the hint, and after more pestering, Bruce gave up. "Do you and Donna ever fight?"

"Of course we do. We're sisters."

"How long do your fights usually last?"

"Not too long, I suppose," Diana mused. "But it always feels like too long." Bruce hadn't been expecting anything else, but his heart still sank a little. Donna Troy had a similar situation to Dick, in a way, being the junior partner. Forever in the shadow of her mentor, even after managing to take the title herself and build her own impressive legacy. There was even some 'back from the grave' issues that they could relate to.

But the situations were radically different as well, and he should have known Diana couldn't truly understand. "Are you and Dick fighting again?" Again. Like it was common. And heaven help Bruce, it was.

"No. Everything's fine." Everything was awful.

Wonder Woman pursed her lips and appeared to be analyzing that information. "Returning from time was a big adjustment, for all of us. You were barely back two minutes before jumping right into crime-fighting and announcing your global Batman project. Do you think you've taken on too much too soon?" Bruce tried to say he had everything under control, only for Diana to roll her eyes at him. "Sure you do. You definitely didn't need to hitch a ride with me. You could have made it to Africa all on your own, missing your flight was deliberate."

"It's not like that," Bruce snapped, even though it was. "Work isn't the problem. I've been managing this schedule for years. It's the only part of my life it's easy."

"Then what's throwing you off your game?" He was asked next. "Because you haven't been the professional, controlled CEO we love and tolerate lately, and Batman hasn't been his usual self, either." She was the third person to say that in the past 24 hours. Was Bruce's inner turmoil really so noticeable? "You said it was a family problem?"

Maybe he did need the help. "Dick's birthday was today. I wanted to spend time with him, but I didn't get the chance. Didn't make a chance," he amended, after a thought. "And I suppose it wouldn't be such a big deal, but I haven't spent much time with him, or any of them, outside of the cowl. Even with case work, we usually talk long-distance."

"It must be hard to be away all the time," Wonder Woman said in a sympathetic voice, and something tightened in Bruce's chest.

"It's normal," he said quietly. "I let that become normal." Even if he was home, he usually pushed all the others away. "Something always comes up." And what was his excuse now? At least he managed to call his son on the right day, and sit down for a few minutes. "I asked him what he wanted for his birthday, and he said he wanted an hour with me."

"Awww..."

"You think it's cute? He could have asked for anything. Why doesn't he want more? He's worth more than that."

"Are you saying that because you actually believe it, or because it's easier for you to give money than time?"

Bruce took a bit of offense to that. "I didn't say one was more important!" He shot back. "But an hour? There's no sacrifice, it's like giving somebody air! He asked for something I barely have to lift a finger for, that's not a gift!"

"If it's so easy, why couldn't you do it?" Good question. "And why does it matter how much effort you put into a gift if, it's what he wants?"

"Gifts should be an expression of how you feel," Bruce said with flushed cheeks. "If it's something ordinary, what's the message there? He only asked for an hour, that's nothing! Why doesn't he want more from me?" _But why would he?_ a voice whispered in Bruce's ear, _It's not like you even managed to give him an hour. Dick isn't going to want more of nothing._ "Does he think he's not worth more?"

Or did Dick think Bruce and his presents were worthless? "This feels like a conversation you should be having with Dick."

"I've tried," Bruce moaned. "But he said that's what he wants, and I can't even get it right! He always sells himself short and I can't ever make him happy!"

"Did you try giving him what he asked for?"

"Yes!" Did she think he was stupid? "When he was sixteen, I bought a car for his birthday and he didn't like it. I thought it was because I didn't listen to him, so when Christmas came, I got him _exactly_ what he asked for and he still was disappointed!" Every time, and Bruce was scared to think that Dick would have been disappointed even _if_ Bruce managed to spend quality time together this year. "What am I doing wrong?"

"I don't know, have you asked him?"

"He won't say anything! Said he loved that stupid car, but he _didn't_ , Diana! I saw it on his face!" Bruce leaned back in his chair and pinched the bridge of his nose. "I don't know why, and I don't know why he won't just tell me! It's not like he's ever had a problem expressing his disappointment in me before."

"Why is this so important to you?"

"He's my son. He's the best thing that ever happened to me. I can't even find words to express..." So many feelings in his heart, threatening to burst with every beat. "He doesn't know that. I try to tell him and I mess it up. I try to show him and I miss it up. A gift is a symbol of a person's feelings, but I don't have time to get him what he wants, and anything else would be a letdown." But Bruce had a long history of letting Dick down. "No wonder he thinks he's worth so little. He wasn't even surprised when he found out I had nothing to give him."

Diana was quiet for a moment, and Bruce's mind wandered back to his trip through time. Maybe the gifts weren't the problem, but the giver. How could Bruce's presents mean anything to his sons, if he himself was worthless? He thought back to Boy, in those early days of the Omega-fueled journey. _"Man of Bats. I followed you."_ Bereft of his father, Man. _"Who will teach me to be a man now?"_ Had Bruce? Man asked the bat-like stranger to protect his son, but what became of that young man after Bruce jumped forward in time? Boy jumped to his side, fighting for and with the Batman, but Bruce left Boy with nothing in the end.

Boy, Annie, Jack and all the others, believing him to be someone he wasn't. Bruce disappeared out of their lives as quickly as he entered, with blood and bells in his wake. He was nothing without partners by his side, but he bled those people dry until he finally moved on, and now they were distant memories. Bruce would die without Dick, but he'd shove his son away and burn out the last of his light because he couldn't find a way to change the pattern. He'd become a solitary, friendless bat, while the bells of the All-Over rang in the distance... "Why can't I get this right, Diana? Why can't I do this one, simple thing?"

The princess of Themyscira sighed. "Bruce, you do a lot of good in the world. You have a good life, and a lot of luck." Didn't he know it. After being hit with Omega beams, he could have blown a hole in time, and Wonder Woman was prepared to destroy him for the godlike power he'd amassed over his trip. If Red Robin hadn't broken through to him, she would have done what was necessary. "And all of it needs you. Gotham, the League, Batman Incorporated, your family and your company. They're all good, and not a single one is expendable. But you have to decide," she explained with a stern voice, the one Bruce sometimes found preachy. "Maybe Dick will disappear if you miss one birthday, maybe he won't. Maybe the world will explode if Batman doesn't solve the mystery, or maybe your board of directors will kick you out if you cancel a meeting. You're the only one who can decide what takes priority at the moment, and if you're willing to risk neglecting something for too long."

"How is that supposed to help?"

"It's not. You need to grow up and make your own decisions. Mommy and Daddy aren't around tell you what to do anymore."

Bruce's eyes narrowed into a glare darker than space. "How dare you..."

"Excuse me?" Diana replied with eyes darker than twin black holes, somehow out-glaring the bat. "You don't have the monopoly on losing parents, Bruce Wayne." That hurt, but if Bruce thought it an unfair criticism, Diana didn't look like she cared. "You want people to tell you what to do, it takes the responsibility off of your shoulders. Makes it easier to live with missing a birthday party, or a board meeting, or a mission. If other people have a problem with your choice, it's not your fault." She turned back to the jet controls with a huff. "But you already know what you want to do. So do it."

"Thanks, Princess, great advice," Bruce drawled, for all Diana noticed the sarcasm.

"Sorry to be harsh, but you're complaining about your priorities like they're not within your control. They are. You've had the Batman version of 'It's A Wonderful Life', doesn't that give you some perspective?"

Bruce had to raise an eyebrow at that. "You Amazons know 'It's A Wonderful Life'?"

"Clark, Etta, Dick, Donna, Wally," Diana rolled her eyes. "Even Steve. If it was a sentimental classic, I guarantee I've seen it. But you've seen evidence of a life without you, now. Wasn't there anything you wanted to change?"

"Of course there was," Bruce replied. "But this is less Frank Capra and more 'Our Town'." After death, the main character of that play got to go back to one day in her life, but nothing could change, nothing affected, and all without the blissful ignorance of the living. It was a torture for her, overwhelmed by the value of life in every single second, that the living never realized. Bruce thought he understood now, enough for it to hurt, but the cares and minute perspectives of mortality narrowed his view. He wasn't remembering to value life every minute, but he did have a perfect awareness of how those minutes were racing by. With every hour, a bell tolled and time raced forward. "It's not that easy."

"Why not?" She said that so easily. As if Bruce hadn't spent his whole life trying.

And now, with his very unique experiences behind him, she dared to trivialize his dilemma? Diana said herself, all of Bruce's responsibilities were noble and all of them needed him.

But something had to give, and Bruce knew where he wanted to be right now. He knew where he wanted to be hours ago.

Bruce took his cell phone out of his pocket and dialed Lucius, purposefully trying to numb himself against all the other thoughts swirling in his head. The purring tone before the line picked up was the most anxiety-ridden sound Bruce had heard in a long while, like a thousand little bells... "Bruce? Good to hear from you, what's your ETA?"

"There's been a delay. I need you to handle things with Ba and Zavimbe until I get there."

"What kind of delay? You know far better than me what Batman's operation requires. My input isn't half as valuable."

"Just show them the costume and gear specs our Batman currently uses and discuss which elements might not be practical for their situation. We can expand on that and set up the financial assistance when I arrive. I'll only be held back a day, at most." There was some more business talk, and then Bruce hung up the phone with shaking hands. Just a few words, and yet it felt so monumental.

This was his pet project, his dream, the ultimate end of all his efforts since Joe Chill held up a gun in Crime Alley. The safety of the world, symbols of hope and justice spread across a global scale, and Bruce was bailing. Just tossing the reins into the air and not even looking to see if Lucius was in a position to catch them. It was rude to his business partner, his colleagues, to Batwing and the other clients he intended to meet with. Bruce wasn't used to shirking his responsibilities, he was used to taking on more and more while leaving nothing overlooked.

But that was never more than an illusion. "Diana, would you please turn the plane around?" The woman next to him smiled.

"Next stop, Gotham City."

* * *

The house was quiet when Bruce arrived at Wayne Manor. He didn't expect anyone to be home, with Dick, Damian and Alfred residing in the penthouse, so he let himself in with a key he luckily remembered to carry. He went straight to his room, intent on getting some much-needed sleep after his long week, but couldn't quite commit himself to that. After all, he still had no gift for his son's now-belated birthday, and he needed time to think of something. He knew what Dick wanted, and he intended to deliver, even if it was no longer the actual birthday, but that wasn't enough for Bruce. Just time wasn't enough, it would never be enough.

But what would? Bruce sat on his bed and let his eyes fall to a painting on the wall. It was a family treasure, painted by Bruce's uncle, his mother's brother. The man loved to work in monochromes, finding beauty in black and white images, and in the blends of grays. This painting depicted the Gotham skyline, with a beautiful sunrise that evoked all the beauty and awe that any colored image would, alongside the striking play of black against white. It was given as a gift on the day Bruce was born.

"Father?" The voice of his youngest son shook the billionaire from his thoughts, and Bruce turned toward his bedroom door to see a very surprised Damian. "I thought you were in Africa."

"Change of plans," Bruce said, and then the two of them ran out of words.

The silence stretched on.

"Oh," Damian finally said to fill the void. "Well, welcome back."

"Thanks." Both of them were resisting the urge to fidget. "What are _you_ doing here? I thought you would've gone back home after patrol." Did he really just say that? How did it come out so easily, and when did he start thinking of his son's home as being in a different place than his?

"A local biochemist attempted to a unleash a virus upon the city. We stopped it in time, but some of the evidence was contaminated and now the bunker is under quarantine. It should only be for a few days, if we're in the way."

"You're never in the way, Damian." Bruce loved the look on his son's face when he said that. He hated that it needed to be said at all. "Is Dick around, too?"

Damian snickered a little. "Batman got infected with the virus. I administered the antidote immediately and he's recovering in his old room. I might have overestimated the dosage a bit, he hasn't been exactly lucid."

"Fear not, sir. A good night's sleep should leave the young master with little more than a headache," Alfred reassured as he entered the room. The butler spared a look at Damian, and raised an eyebrow. "As for the youngest master, I believe you should also be in your room, asleep."

"I heard noises," Damian protested, but obediently left the room after offering a rushed 'Goodnight' to his father.

Bruce watched him go, then turned to Alfred. "Sorry to drop in suddenly like this."

"It is your house, sir. But forgive me if I haven't properly turned your room over."

"I haven't had a full night sleep in over a week. You could turn it upside down, and I wouldn't care." He smiled at his old friend. "Everything else go okay tonight?"

"As far as I know, all young vigilantes made it safely to their beds. Master Dick may have taken a scenic route, but his situation is not so much dire as it is comical."

"Oh?"

"In his own words, the antidote has left him feeling a little 'Lucy in the sky with diamonds'." Bruce couldn't help but laugh, even if being sick on one's birthday was a little pitiable. "He should be asleep now, but I imagine you'll want to check on him."

"You know me too well." After a quick discussion of Bruce's itinerary for the next day, which could be summarized as 'no idea', Bruce left the study and made his way down the hall to Dick's room. As reported, Dick was sleeping, and Bruce felt a fond smile creeping to his face at the sight. How grown-up his little boy had become, and still so adorable and childlike while sleeping. The world might call him Batman now, but Dick would always be his little Robin.

Almost unconsciously, Bruce reached out to brush some hair from Dick's eyes. "Heard you had a rough night, chum. I hope you didn't take too many risks out there." Who was Bruce kidding? Every time they stepped out of the cave was a chance they might not come back. He used to bench Robin for being injured by the likes of Two-Face and the Joker, and now he had shoved the cowl at his oldest son and charged him with all of Gotham City? "I guess I take you for granted sometimes. Don't you go doing the same thing to yourself. If anything ever happened to you..." Dick began to stir, and Bruce pulled his hand away as the young man blinked his sleepy and somewhat glassy eyes.

Dick looked up with a tired but contented smile. "Missed you, B." Bruce felt a lump growing his throat.

"I'm sorry. I wanted to stay, but the League needed me." Excuses. Possibly valid, but preceded by so many others that it didn't matter. "I'm here now."

Dick yawned, "That's good. I told my dad he could be Batman. That okay?"

It took Bruce a minute to digest that. "You're dreaming. Or hallucinating." Maybe both. But Dick just hummed and closed his eyes, snuggling into his pillows.

"That's fine. I like talking to you. I'm glad you're back." Another yawn broke through, giving Bruce a second to control the sudden onslaught of sentiment. "Mom wants to be Catwoman. You gotta make her stop. It's creepy." That killed the moment, and Bruce ruffled Dick's hair with a small laugh that grew louder when Dick try to clumsily swat him away.

"Get some sleep. I'll talk to you in the morning, when the drugs are out of your system." He said that, but Bruce didn't move, frozen at his son's bedside. After second of indecision, he leaned forward and whispered in Dick's ear, "I _do_ love you. You know that, right?"

Dick nodded into his pillow. "You wrote that on my cupcake." Even a drug-fueled dream was a more attentive father than Bruce had been.

"I'm sorry I didn't get you a real present."

"Was a _really_ good cupcake."

Bruce didn't know whether to laugh or cry. "I wanted to get you something better. Something real. But I messed up."

"No you didn't. I love cupcakes." Dick struggled to lift his head a bit and Bruce gently pushed him back down. "You give great presents. Just like dad." High praise, indeed.

"What sorts of things did he give you?" In truth, Bruce was looking for ideas, so he wouldn't have to face Dick in the morning with his hands still empty.

He wasn't prepared for the answer. "He gave me you." Bruce thought he was going to asphyxiate then and there. "I didn't like that at first, but now I do." And after one more enormous yawn, Dick rolled over and went to sleep for good. Bruce only sat, ramrod straight, and waited for his heart to get over the shock. Dick always had a knack for dropping bombs in the middle of a conversation, but this was somehow more earth shattering.

As soon as his lungs remembered how to take in air, Bruce rose up and escaped into the hallway. He didn't stop until he was safe in his room again, door shut against the guilt and intangible fear. What had Bruce ever done to warrant such a statement? He didn't deserve to replace John Grayson, for all he might wish otherwise, and Dick should have known that. After falling short time after time, accidentally and even deliberately causing emotional harm, why was he still held in such high regard?

 _Oh, God, what if I broke him?_ Bruce panicked for a second. _What if I made him so pathologically dependent that he doesn't even recognize he's being hurt?_ Did that make their relationship abusive?

There was a knock behind him, and Bruce shakily turned and opened the door to meet Alfred. "Some freshly fluffed pillows, sir. If you need nothing else, I believe I'll turn in for the night."

"Wait, Alfred," Bruce stopped the butler, though he wrung his hands and stammered a bit before coming to the point. "Do I... that is... would you say Dick... or any of them... Do I hurt them?"

"Sir?"

"I know, of course I hurt them, but would you say..." he trailed off, mostly because Alfred's face told him the older man understood perfectly.

"I believe I've already said my piece on that subject, Master Bruce. If I felt the need to involve authorities, rest assured, I would have," the butler said as he replaced pillows on the master bed. "Concerning your domestic lives, of course. As far as your night work goes, I'm resigned to spend my afterlife in purgatory." Bruce frowned, but said nothing. "What prompted this sudden crisis of conscience?"

"I still don't have a gift for Dick's birthday." Alfred looked dumbfounded. "He doesn't even care. Why doesn't he want me? He asked for so little anyway, why doesn't he want more of me?" Remembering Dick's extreme words from earlier, "Why _does_ he want me? I can't even get him a good present."

With a long-suffering sigh, Alfred placed a hand on his employer's shoulder. "Perhaps you should sleep on this problem, Master Bruce. You might find your thoughts connecting properly with adequate rest."

"I don't need to sleep, I need to-"

"Forgive me sir, but you do. I fear you have completely lost perspective and can't see the forest for the trees. Get some rest," he ordered amidst protest, "And if things don't become any clearer for you, I will be happy to discuss this with you then." Though Bruce didn't agree, Alfred's tone refused all argument and he shooed his charge off to change and begin nighttime toiletries.

Bruce wasn't sure if he'd be able to sleep with all the thoughts clouding his head, but he had no choice but to obey. When he stepped out of the Master bath, he found Alfred still in his room, gazing at the painting of the black and white Gotham sunrise.

When he heard his master's step behind him, Alfred turned away from the painting. "You remember why your uncle created this? Your mother also worried about her ability to raise a child in this world. Afraid all her good works would distract her from the child that could never be rescheduled when responsibilities clashed."

"I think she did all right," Bruce defended, even if his perspective was biased and the limited one of an eight-year-old.

"She would be grateful to hear so, I'm sure." Alfred gave his charge an encouraging smile. "Go to bed, Master Bruce, and take heart. Tomorrow is a new day, full of new beginnings." The butler left, and Bruce got into bed, his eyes on the painting and his mind on all the conversations he'd had that day. An idea began to take root.

With a smile on his face, Bruce finally allowed himself to drop to sleep, excited to face the next day. He now knew the _perfect_ gift to give his son...


	4. Chapter 4

It was with glee that Bruce crept down the halls of Wayne Manor, clutching two wrapped gifts to his person. The first was smaller and earier to manager, a flat rectangular package, but the second, though similarly thin, was much more delicate. He took great care not to damage either as he slipped down the halls and into the library.

This was a good place to store it, out of sight, and easily retrieved or forgotten, depending on how the first gift went over. Bruce had been so sure before retiring to bed that this was the perfect present for Dick, but now, after a night's rest, he was having some doubts. It could be that he was reading the situation completely inaccurately, and if so, he absolutely didn't want to make things worse by introducing a second failure. After stashing the more cumbersome gift safely behind a sofa, Bruce left the library and continued on to the kitchen, where his two sons were seated at the table for breakfast.

Before he could even offer a morning greeting, Damian was out of his chair and inspecting the brightly colored package in Bruce's arms. "More of these gaudy things? Grayson, just how long do you intend to drag out this pampering?"

"Now, let the man breathe, or I won't let you see what it is," Dick said with a grin, and Damian returned to his chair with a grumble that he didn't really care. "That's for me? You didn't have to."

"Happy Birthday," Bruce offered, feeling a little bit hesitant now that the moment had come. He wanted so badly to finally see that look of unbridled joy on his son's face, to watch his child be completely overwhelmed with surprise and happiness, and know that _he_ made that happen. But if Dick's face showed the same flashes of disappointment or resignation that he was so used to seeing, Bruce thought his heart might break. To distract himself, he searched for another topic as he handed over the present. "I don't need to be vaccinated against that virus you boys found last night, do I?"

"Not unless I bleed on you," Dick said with a dismissive wave, and Bruce noticed that he seemed a little sluggish in his movements, but otherwise healthy. "It was incubated in these mutated plants, and I got covered in the infected spores. But Damian and Alfred made sure I was clean before we all came over to the Manor. We didn't bring along any hitchhikers, but let us know if you start feeling sick, just in case."

"Sure. You seem a lot better." Dick's hands were tearing off the wrapping paper, and Bruce almost held his breath.

"No kidding. I'd steer clear of the bunker if I were you, last night got intense for awhile."

"That's an understatement," Damian muttered. Bruce observed the posture of his youngest son, the tension in the shoulders, and suspected that he'd been a bit shaken by the events of the previous day. Though everything seemed safe and casual now, it appeared that there was at least a moment where Damian had been truly afraid. "Please don't make the same dumb mistakes as Grayson, Father."

"Aw, you're so sweet, Dami," Dick teased, then stopped as the last of the bright wrapping paper came off. Both he and his brother stared for a moment at the box.

"Monopoly? You got him a board game?" Damian's tone was almost patronizing, but Dick's was merely quizzical, and both faces turned up to their father with curiosity in their eyes.

Bruce cleared his throat and hoped for the best. "I thought you and I could play against each other, if you're feeling up to it, of course." There was a moment of silence, and then the lights dawned in Dick's eyes, and a slow smile began to pull at his face, widening with every second until there was no more room to expand.

"Bruce," his son all but sang, "This game is going to run _way_ longer than an hour."

Encouraged by that reaction, Bruce gave a smile of his own. "I've got all day." And there was. That look of happiness Bruce longed to see. Nothing hidden, nothing compromised.

Dick's fingers clenched around the Monopoly box, but the grin never lessened. "You canceled your trip to Africa for this?"

"Well, delayed it. But, yes."

"Man, Bruce..." After a few seconds, Bruce thought Dick might start giggling. "You're the best, you know that?"

 _No, you are._ All the things in the world Dick could ask for, and he made something so small seem so precious. All the dangers that could or had separated Bruce from his son, and Dick acted like _he_ was the one receiving a gift. "I _am_ the best, chum. You'd better bring your A game if you want to win. I won't go easy on you just because you had a birthday yesterday."

Dick's laugh was the most beautiful thing in the world. "You're on, old man. You're on."

* * *

"This is disturbingly like real life," Dick surveyed the board with a rueful grin. A good three quarters of the game was covered in Bruce's hotels, all his properties built up to their maximum limits, while the man himself sat on a small mountain of colorful cash. Dick, on the other hand, had been forced to mortgage or trade away most of his properties, and was now only left with two railroads and Baltic Avenue.

The two were sitting cross-legged on the floor of the library, both absorbed in their game while time outside had no meaning. Behind a nearby sofa sat Bruce's second present, but even though Dick had responded well to the offer of a game, Bruce still wasn't sure if he should bring out the second part of his plan. "I don't know. A few lucky rolls and you might turn it all around."

"That would be a pretty big turn." Dick rolled and breathed a sigh of relief when he narrowly avoided Bruce's properties to land on his own railroad. "Remember when you used to try and teach me business principles with this game? I don't think I learned anything."

"You could give up now, save yourself the embarrassment."

"Ha! Never! I'll still fight the man with the last dollar I have." Which they weren't that far away from.

"Well, you learned tenacity, at least." Bruce made his own roll, but since he was in possession of the majority of the board, it wasn't a surprise when he landed on his own property.

But even if he was losing, Dick still wore a large smile. "This is really fun, Bruce. Thank you."

"You're welcome." He done it, finally made his son happy- _truly_ happy- with one of his presents. But Bruce was still troubled by how little it was. Perhaps less troubled as _awed_ , but there were still voices of doubt in his ears. He never wanted Dick to grow up spoiled or greedy, but had he pushed too far in the other direction? Shouldn't Dick feel entitled to more? Parents wanted to give things to their kids, everything they could. Didn't Bruce love Dick enough, that the boy would want and expect more?

"You're brooding again. What is it?" Dick asked while making his roll, but the question died on his lips as soon as the dice landed. "A seven? But that's... no! Come _on_!" He landed on 'Go to Jail', and Bruce couldn't help but laugh at the barrage of despondent faces his son made.

"No leniency for a former cop?"

"Guess not. Man, I don't even get a fair trial!" He mostly dragged his little token all the way to the Jail square, then looked up with wide eyes. "Bail me out, Daddy?"

"Not until you tell me what you did," Bruce played along, and Dick stuck out his tongue.

"Fine. I organized an Occupy Park Place rally, and things got violent." He handed over the dice and let Bruce take his roll, and groaned audibly when Bruce passed Go and collected $200. "And of course you land on Community Chest. You have all the luck in the world."

The card drawn was a bank error in Bruce's favor so he collected more money and passed Dick the dice so he could try and fail to roll the necessary doubles for bail. "You should just pay the fifty dollars."

"With you owning the next three blocks? I'm probably safer in jail." He handed the dice over, then looked away. "Bruce, are you having fun?"

"What?" Bruce was startled and even a little hurt by that question. "Of course I am! This is been..." It struck Bruce just how much of a good time he was having, just sitting with his son, no masks. "This is a blast." He meant it, and Dick seemed to accept that, but it didn't end line of questioning.

"Good, but you're upset about something. I can always tell."

"I'm not upset." Just a little nervous. The second present still hid behind the sofa, and Bruce wasn't sure whether or not to take it out. "It's fine, let's just play. No interruptions, remember? That was the deal." Bruce rolled his dice, and Dick frowned as his father moved the token a measly few spaces to land on Just Visiting.

"The deal was that I got an hour with you. Talking through problems isn't an interruption. That used to be our thing when I was younger." It was true, and Dick was better than any therapist for providing a listening ear, and able to give advice that no other well-meaning person around Bruce had a right to give. But he wanted this to be a happy memory. Bruce pondered that while Dick grabbed his little token and shuffled it to the edge of the square. "So sweet! You came to visit me! Hi, Bruce!" the younger man chattered in a high, squeaky voice, and Bruce stifled a laugh.

"It's your birthday. Or close enough," he winced. "I finally got you a present you like, so let's not ruin it with serious topics."

"What do you mean, finally?" Dick laughed. "I've always loved your presents.." He rolled and failed to get doubles for the second time. "Ugh. Maybe third times the charm?"

"But you _haven't_ liked those presents, Dick. Why do you keep saying that?" Dick's head snapped up from the board game in shock, and as much as Bruce hadn't wanted to mar the game with this discussion, he couldn't listen to the lie anymore. "I know you were disappointed when I gave you that car, I saw your face!"

"Are you _still_ talking about that car? From my sixteenth birthday, like a decade ago?" Dick shook his head. "I don't know what you think you saw, but I love that car, and that that's the truth. You need to let this go."

"I can't." The board was motionless, now that the words were in the air, and Bruce couldn't bring himself to take his turn. "I know I'm not always as attentive as I could be. Sometimes I let my pride take over and I say things I don't mean."

"I know that, Bruce," Dick tried to interrupt, but the older man forged on ahead.

"You have a gift with people. You understand them, make them feel validated or welcome, you can keep your allies even when you are forced to make choices most would find unforgivable," Bruce explained, and it was always a marvel how magnificent Dick was in this capacity. "This comes naturally to you, so I doubt you can ever understand what it's like for someone without that ability."

Contrary to what Bruce hoped to accomplish, Dick's eyes were growing dark. "I understand people, so I'll therefore never understand them? You're not making sense. And quit making excuses for yourself, you're perfectly capable of empathy and making friends. Bruce Wayne's associates and employees love him and in case you've forgotten, there's this guy named Dick Grayson who still hangs around." He folded his arms and glared a little. "Being _afraid_ to empathize with people, or connect emotionally, that's not the same as not being _able_ to. You do know how to deal with people, but you usually run away when things get hard."

The condemnation settled on Bruce's shoulders, and Dick seemed to regret his words a little. "Sorry to be harsh," he muttered. "Now, take your turn and tell me why you're so hung up on some car." Bruce found himself compelled to obey, and rolled the dice to land on one of Dick's railroads. "I believe that's fifty bucks to me."

"You're in jail," Bruce pointed out, and Dick froze. "You can't receive income."

"...well, suck." The younger man sat back in defeat. "Guess I'd better quit stalling and scrounge up my own bail money." He began counting out ones and fives while waiting for Bruce to speak, and though both actions took some time to complete, they finished at about the same time.

"Expressing things through gifts is... easier for me. More efficient," he said while Dick paid out the fifty dollars for bail. "Even if I'm afraid to say something, as you accused, or I say something thoughtless, a gift is a tangible expression. It's permanent, it means so much more than I could ever say in words, and I can't take it back just because I have a fit of temper."

"Yeah, I get that." Dick picked up the pair of dice and rolled them, getting double fives. "Son of a bat..." A second later, however, joy replaced the irony. "That's Free Parking! Take that, old man! I'm so back in this game!" He all but whistled as he moved his token and swept up the cash in the center of the board, counting it with glee. As no one had landed on Free Parking all game, it was a substantial amount. "I believe we had this discussion when I got my first job. If you couldn't be financially responsible for me, it was like you ran out of ways to say you loved me. But we moved past that, didn't we?"

Having just rolled doubles, Dick got to shake the dice again, and Bruce waited until the other's turn was finished before speaking. "You're my son, Dick. You always were, and I never told you... but that car was supposed to mean that, and so much more, it was a symbol of everything I felt for you, but... you didn't want it." _You didn't want me._ He lowered his eyes to the board, that fictional place where Bruce owned the whole city and Dick subsisted on scraps, exploited, bereft and deprived. Money was so much in the world. It bought freedom, it bought a measure of power, it facilitated grand actions for expressing love, creating memories, offering kindness and charity. Though not always accurate, it was a symbol of hard work or sacrifice, and a show of worth. Of course Dick had so little; money was just a symbol, just a means, and if Bruce couldn't give his son the real thing, what worth did little pieces of paper have? "Somehow, I hurt you with that, and every time since, and I still don't know why..."

Dick was very quiet. He set his play money down and rested his elbows on his knees, dropping his head. "You've been hanging on to this for years, haven't you? All right, I'll tell you my stupid deal with the car." Bruce snapped to attention and leaned forward, but his son kept his gaze down. "But if I say this... You've got to understand, sixteen was a rough time for me."

"Rough, how?"

"Duh, I was a teenager. All teenagers think their worlds are ending," Dick said with a rueful shake of his head. "But you and I... we were starting to fight, and some days it felt like you'd been replaced by Mr. Freeze. I hated it."

Bruce wanted to reach across and offer comfort, but there was a new tension in the room, and he was afraid to push against it. "I didn't like it, either."

"I know," came Dick's soft voice, "But that wasn't really the issue. Around my sixteenth birthday, that's about the time... that's when I realized that I loved you."

Bruce's heart stopped for a second, even before his brain fully processed the words. "I mean, I always did, you were my best friend and my teacher, my guardian, but at some point I started loving you like a dad, and that was terrifying, Bruce." Dick gripped his arms a little. "I'd feel happy, and then guilty, or just so afraid to lose you that I couldn't sleep at night, but I couldn't say anything to you because you never talked about the future. I was going to turn eighteen in a couple years and my friends were all talking fancy colleges and I didn't know if I'd even have a home by then."

"Dick, of course you-"

"I know that _now_ , Bruce," Dick snapped a little, "But you never talked about it with me and I started to worry that when the word 'ward' stopped having any meaning, so would I." Dick had once written Bruce a letter, after moving out, saying such things. He didn't know what they were to each other, and it had been Bruce's job to establish those parameters. But he'd always assumed Dick knew without words, just as Robin worked alongside Batman without the need for constant explanation. "It didn't seem fair that I'd start to love you so much when I was so close to losing you."

These were feelings Bruce understood. He'd felt the passage of time just as strongly, the fear that there were limits on their peaceful, loving home, but the realization had come a bit later. He'd felt something pulling Dick away, and as his son had accused, ran away from those emotions, pulled away even more. But it wasn't until Dick had already left that Bruce realized there were no longer any legal ties to bring his boy back. His little Dickiebird wasn't his anymore, and Bruce hadn't convinced him to stay out of love.

So it became a downward spiral, a self-fulfilling prophecy. Bruce believed all family ties were severed, and so hid himself until there was nothing left for the boy to grab onto. "When you offered to buy me the car, it was nice, but just another thing that would stop having meaning when I left home. So I asked for one of your cars. Something you could hand down, like a father-son thing, with real memories attached. Even if we stopped being a family, we'd both still know that I was out in the world somewhere, driving a car you used to drive..."

The full meaning hit Bruce. "You wanted me to give you a piece of myself." When his son nodded, he felt his heart breaking into a million pieces. "Oh, Dick..."

"So, yeah, I was disappointed for five seconds, when it looked like you didn't want me to have that," Dick continued, running a hand through his hair and trying to bravely override the crack in his voice. "But you bought me that car because you wanted me to feel like your son, right? Like all the other parents who bought their kids new cars, it was a ritual for them to walk into the driveway or the parking lot and see the big bow... you wanted to share that with me."

"I did," Bruce answered truthfully, but his gut still clenched with guilt. "Still, I should have listened to you..."

With a smile, Dick said, "Money's different for you. You don't have to work, if you don't want to. But you do, you work so hard, so you can funnel all of it into being Batman and all these charities and... taking in stray orphans. Even after growing up here, I can't help but count dollar signs wherever I go, and that car..." Dick swallowed and blinked back a few tears. "That could have bought so many Batarangs, or a new Batmobile, you could have used that money to buy new equipment for a hospital. But it's not like you had to choose one or the other, you always do it all, and you were trying to tell me I was just as important to you as your mission, and helping Gotham. All the work you do as Bruce Wayne to make that happen, I'm worth that too, even when I'm not Robin..." Dick met his father's gaze with a tearful smile. "That meant a lot to me, Bruce. Tell me you weren't carrying so much hurt all these years because I wasn't grateful for five seconds."

"No, of course not, I just wanted..." Bruce sighed. It was too late, now, what was done was done. "You had a right to be a bit upset. I wanted to do something meaningful, but that's no excuse for not listening to you."

"Gifts aren't about what I want, they're about what you want me to have," Dick insisted. "There's nothing I could ever get you that you can't buy for yourself. Everything I give you is cheap, but you always say you love it. I like to think that's because it's me who thought you'd like it." He began to look very uncomfortable, and the billionaire felt his heart melt.

"It is." But that still didn't absolve the CEO. "Which car did you want, when you asked for one of mine?"

"Whichever one you wanted to give me. That was the whole point." Dick took a breath and pushed the dice over to Bruce. "Take your turn, big man." Bruce obeyed, and landed on his own property again.

"I did think about it back then," Bruce revealed as he moved his piece, and Dick raised an eyebrow. "I bought a new car in the end, but I spent a lot of time looking through my collection for one you'd like."

"Oh yeah? Which one did you decide on?"

"That red and yellow love-bug," he replied, and Dick burst out laughing.

"The one with the fuzzy dice? Aw, man, I would have loved that!" he chortled, clutching at his stomach. "I would have thought I looked so cool!"

Bruce couldn't help but smile. "It was the first car I bought for myself." With those words, Dick sobered up in a rush.

"Really?"

"Really. I was sixteen myself, well before I started training for the mission. I was still looking for something to fill the void my parents left, and even though buying things didn't really help, I kept looking for new and bigger stuff. But I saw that thing in a used car lot, it wasn't very expensive, but it made me laugh a little. I didn't have a lot of fun times back then, but the few I had involved driving that thing around hoity-toity wine country."

"Wow. You'd have given that to me?" Dick's eyes were shining, and something light and free fluttered in Bruce's chest to see his son looking so touched by his words. Now he knew, though, his second gift was right on target. He just needed to find the right moment to reach behind the sofa and present it.

"It would have been right." He handed over the dice, wishing he had gone through with that gut instinct so long ago. "But you were a kid, then. I think I'd rather give you the Lamborghini, now."

He was rewarded and also a little disturbed when Dick's eyes glazed over. " _Oh,_ " the young man all but purred, "That's a _nice_ car." But he very quickly shook his head. "Probably not a good idea, though. I don't get out for fun much these days, and I won't be able to afford the insurance once I give up my job at the company."

"You're going to-" Bruce stopped himself and tried to count to ten before responding, and Dick held up his hands.

"Come on, you knew it was coming. Tim was always better at that stuff, and you're back now, so I don't need to..." he trailed off in the face of Bruce's heavy sighs. "Don't hate me, we gave up on me being a business tycoon years ago. I mean, just look how I play Monopoly!"

That earned a chuckle from Bruce, and one final sigh. "You're capable of anything, Dick. I just want you to have everything you deserve in life."

"That's all relative. I deserve a lot of stuff money can't buy." As if he hadn't meant to say that, Dick scrambled for the cards before him. "I'm going to un-morgagte these two properties, Vermont and Mediterranean Ave., and put houses on Mediterranean and Baltic." Bruce was quiet through his son's turn, and eventually, Dick raised his head again. "I'm happy, that's all I meant to say. I appreciate all you do for me, but the good life I have now only exists because of the good life I lost all those years ago, and I'm at peace with that. Just because I'm turning down your career path doesn't mean I'm rejecting you. You have more to offer than that." He handed over the dice with an innocent smile, and Bruce raised an eyebrow.

"You have something to offer as well," he said in an effort not to get choked up. "I noticed you landed on Tennessee, with my hotel."

"Aw, I was hoping you'd get distracted by all the sap we're flinging around here."

"You should know better," he chided. "Keep trying to cheat and maybe I won't let you drive that Lamborghini."

"Such threats!"

"Maybe I'll leave it to Jason as part of his inheritance."

"First of all, still too soon. Second, he'd ram it into a tree." Dick sat back and stretched a little. "Your move, old man."

Bruce hesitated. He wanted to let the conversation drop off with the humor, just give his second gift and have nothing but smiles attached to the day, but this was something that needed to be said. "I want to do better, Dick, for all of you. I know today doesn't make up for all the mistakes I've made, but-"

"Hey, hey, I told you not to beat yourself up about the whole present thing-"

"No, this is about everything else," Bruce insisted. "I had a lot of time to think, while I was lost in time. It gave me a new perspective on things. We get to spend days like this together, but there's just as many days when I let my temper take over, or lose myself in the mission..." He trailed off and Dick nodded with a slightly sheepish look on his face.

"You're human, Bruce. I've let that big ol' chip on my shoulder come between us more than once."

And who was responsible for that? "That sounds like the kind of excuses we hear in domestic abuse cases." He watched all the blood drain out of Dick's face. It was a sensitive topic, for the both of them. "The families always loved each other, swore up and down that the aggressor was just a little hot-headed, or overprotective, or having a bad day. They were usually so loving, and the victims started the fights just as often."

"That's not us."

"I hope not." Bruce reorganized his stacks of Monopoly money to give himself something to do. "But I don't want to keep racing through time so quickly that everything in the past is a distant memory. I don't want to disappear again and leave you wondering which side of me was the truth, or how I really felt about you. And I especially don't want to live a life without you again, not even able to remember if my last words to you were good ones." Life could change in a moment, he'd learned that once and for all through Darkseid. He'd been taken from everything he loved in the blink of an eye, and then ripped from era to era with no warning until he was finally free. Last night, he could have lost Dick without even knowing it, been wrapped up with his oh-so-important business in Africa like he'd been wrapped up with cases before while Dick attracted danger like a magnet.

And he couldn't keep assuming he'd get an infinite amount of second chances. "I keep relying on physical things, or for you all to intuit what I mean, so I don't have to put myself on the line with my words. But the truth is, you're..." Why was it so hard to say this now, when there was no one else who deserved to hear it more? "You're so precious to me. That's the truth, whatever else happens between us. And I'm going to try and be better." He couldn't meet Dick's eyes, which were wide and staring. "I just wanted you to know that."

"Okay, so, we did get _you_ back from time, right? Not another fake?" He was fairly sure Dick was joking, but there was a tone in the young man's voice that suggested his son wasn't entirely confident. "You don't usually talk like this, is everything all right?"

"Things haven't been all right for a long time. But today, just spending time with you, that's been wonderful. Being with my son feels like more of a gift for me than for you." Dick smiled back, that perfect, sky-blue smile, and Bruce felt a push of courage. "I have something I want to give you." He reached behind the sofa and pulled out the second present with care, summoning confidence as he gestured Dick over.

"Careful, Bruce, you'll spoil me."

"I don't think that's possible." Dick sat on the sofa and began pulling the paper away from the present, which revealed itself to be a painting. "Is this...?"

The same painting that used to hang in Bruce's bedroom. "My uncle painted that, you know. It was a gift for my mother, to celebrate her new little baby. I want you to have it," he said, when Dick seemed shocked and speechless. "You've always seemed interested in it."

"Well, yeah, it's pretty cool," Dick managed to find his words again. "I really like the black on white, it's so vivid." He gestured down at the monochromatic view of the Gotham skyline, with some grayish tones shaded in to indicate a gorgeous sunrise. "And I'll never know how he got that sunrise to look like that, it's like it's tricking my eyes or something, I'd almost swear I see golden sunbeams."

"Maybe Damian can explain it. He's the artist in the family," Bruce smiled, then put a hand on Dick's shoulder. "My mother always said you couldn't have the light without the dark, or vice versa. But she used to worry that the contrast in Gotham was too wide a separation. The city was divided into black and white, and she was afraid that blackness would corrupt her little boy, or I'd be so dazzled by the white lights that I'd be blind to the rest of the world."

"Well, I think you turned out all right," Dick leaned his head back to smile up at his father, and Bruce gave his son's shoulder a squeeze.

"When my uncle gave this to my mother, he told her she'd always been able to appreciate the beauty in both the light and dark, and he knew she'd teach me to do the same. Her dream was to bridge the gap between the wealthy and the impoverished in Gotham City, find a middle ground between the white and the black. A new, brighter day, full of hope and joy." He felt Dick's shoulders tightening under his hands, and Bruce hoped that wasn't a bad sign. "The painting's called 'Gray Son Over Gotham'. It's always made me think of you."

He wasn't sure what to think when Dick set the painting to the side, then plunged his face into his hands. Nervous, Bruce hovered over the other man, until Dick started to laugh. "I just don't want to cry all over the paint. Bruce, I don't know what to say..." He lifted his face a little to reveal misty blue eyes. "You really want me to have this? It was your mom's..."

"And then it was mine. Now, it's yours. A little piece of family history."

"This is... unbelievable..."

"Good unbelievable, I hope."

Dick's response was to pull Bruce down to the sofa. "Get down here and let me hug you." Dick's arms wrapped around his father, and the two shared an embrace for several minutes. "You really give the best presents, you know that?"

"I don't know, I've never found a gift to top everything you've given me."

"Keep saying things like that and I might start thinking you love me, or something."

Bruce felt his throat tighten, knowing Dick to be facetious, but still gripped by worry. "I do. Of course I do."

"Do what? Say it," and the younger man's tone was full of teasing. Bruce felt his fears subside with the obvious humor, and that allowed his mouth to open more easily.

"I love you, Dick. Always."

He felt, rather than saw Dick's smile. "Now this birthday is perfect. Thank you."

"Don't thank me yet. I still plan to destroy you at Monopoly." Dick's heartfelt laughter filled the room, and both men rose from the sofa to move back to their game. "Happy Birthday, son."

"It really has been." And for the first time in years, Bruce knew he could believe it.


End file.
